Venice is not a great place for stalking. It’s like a medieval maze and one wrong turn and you’re on some dead end and every potential escape route you find, inevitably leads to another dead end. Now that I think about it, it sounds like a metaphor for my entire stalking endeavor thus far.
I didn’t find Johnny in Venice, but I did find myself in a La Perla store (fancy Italian lingerie), having become enamored with a bra in the window. Damn, if it didn’t look and feel fabulous on. It didn’t matter how much it cost, I had to have it. And two pairs of matching panties.
I could get a shot of Botox for the price of this underwear, but unlike the Botox, at the rate my life is going, nobody will see the beautiful bra and panties. Unless I schedule a doctor’s appointment.
Worse, I’ve been home for four days and I’m afraid to open the damn bag because I might sully the contents for the extremely special occasion I’m saving them for. In other words, there’s a very real possibility that someone will find my unopened bag of ridiculously pricey lingerie among my remains many, many, many years from now.
Johnny, this is where you come in. I would definitely consider you the sort of special occasion I would deem worthy of cracking the bag open and actually wearing the precious undergarments.
Since this extravagance is really all your fault, I feel it’s your personal responsibility to come see my new lingerie. In fact, I beg of you. Not only would it be a crime if so much beauty, craftsmanship and expense remain untouched in a paper bag indefinitely, I’d really like to see it again myself.